


Whiskey and Sand

by fleeceknees



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Bisexual Arthur Morgan, Drunken Shenanigans, Drunkenness, M/M, Porn with some plot, They're idiots in love, there is a boat, there is also a beach, unestablished relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-12
Updated: 2019-08-12
Packaged: 2020-08-19 17:55:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20213893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fleeceknees/pseuds/fleeceknees
Summary: “You ever do it on the beach, Charles?” Arthur found himself asking, his mouth moving before his mind. It was something he had read in a book Mary-Beth lent him once, something about a woman escaping her high-class life to be romanced by some handsome young fisherman.His question was met with a snort. “No, that just sounds like too much sand in the wrong places.”Grimacing at the thought of that, Arthur tugged Charles’ hand until they were sitting at the water’s edge. Just out of reach so their asses wouldn’t soak, but close enough to tear their boots off (a joint effort, it turned out) and dip their worn feet in.The water lapped at their toes in a rhythm that mimicked the waves of drunkenness Arthur felt wash over his body. Should he lay down? Charles wouldn’t mind if he used him as a pillow, he was sure.“Back of a wagon,” Charles voice broke through the silence.Arthur blinked in confusion and turned his head to the other man, questioning. “Pardon?”His gaze was returned with a rare, sheepish expression. “Back of a wagon. That’s the most… unorthodox spot I’ve done it.”(In which, a drunken night of lust leads to much more than they bargained for.)





	Whiskey and Sand

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, this is my first time writing and posting anything remotely NSFW. (Also I don't know if it's acceptable for me to say fuck in my summary so it's a little edited). Please be gentle and enjoy!

Nothing quite beat the warm feeling settled low in his belly and the hand resting on his waist. Whiskey in hand, Arthur was a happy man. By the look on Charles’ flushed face, he could say with almost complete certainty that the younger man felt the same.

Cicadas and katydids chirped in time with the tadpoles crowding muddy puddles. The humidity had been near unbearable that week, many gang members opting to go shirtless. No matter how much Arthur’s shirt clung to his skin, he refused to peel it off and subject the rest of camp to the unseemly view of his bare skin, to an _ugly old man._ They already had Uncle.

One morning he had woke before most of the gang and caught the rare sight of Charles slipping his blue chambray over his head. Just a glimpse of flesh, a flash, really—solid and soft under calloused hands. He had adopted the same habit as Arthur during this heatwave, though he believed it to be from the sole fact that Charles was just a _good _man.

Of course, he had seen him in the buff more times than he could count: hunting trips, cooldown swims in a lake or river, long nights under the stars in the country. But he craved more. His desire and hunger were only fed as the days passed where he could only _look_ and never _touch, _always preoccupied or caught up in errands thrown his way from every direction.

That was, until they were met with the weekend.

The gang had been met with a rare stroke of luck the past week—seemed that members were pulling in _score_ after _score_ of anything from stagecoaches to bountiful odd jobs. Naturally, the end of the week was met with a celebration full of liquor, singing, dancing, and more liquor.

Javier’s soulful strumming and singing faded as the duo stumbled further and further away from camp. They giggled like virgins all the while, hands desperate to touch each other—somewhere, _anywhere_. At one point, Arthur tripped over a tree root and nearly face planted in the dirt, only to be caught by a wobbly hand.

“Jesus, Arthur, you’re _drunk_,” Charles laughed as he pulled up the inebriated blond, struggling to remain upright on his feet. Neither of them had been keeping count of the number of bottles they tossed back. The whiskey that had just been in Arthur’s hand was now spilled on the forest floor, forgotten.

(And neither of them would admit to being past tipsy.)

“Aw _fuck you_, like you ain’t drank the same ‘mount!” He spat back with a wicked grin and a slap to the other man’s ass—which, of course, earned him the punishment of abruptly being pinned to the nearest tree.

Arthur could die right now, and he would be happy. Charles could wrap his big hands around his pathetic neck and squeeze until his head lolled back and body went limp—and he would be happy to have even been given so much attention by the other man.

Warm lips grazed the shell of his ear and a thigh wedged itself between his legs. “_I think you should watch that mouth, Mr. Morgan_.”

He didn’t know whether to be scared or turned on. Charles was by no means an average sized man, he knew he wouldn’t last a minute in a fight with him. Hell, his biceps were thicker than his legs. Fortunately for him, his dick responded to the question quicker than he could deliberate it.

Arthur swallowed and opened his mouth to reply. “Why don’t you—”

A stick snapped in the forest and drew the two apart as if they had been burned by the same flame. Eyes locked, breaths held.

At the sight of a squirrel leaping away, they burst into laughter and wordlessly grabbed each other’s hands. They clambered over rocks and stumps, out of the forest, until they were met with the lake shore.

“You ever fuck on the beach, Charles?” Arthur found himself asking, his mouth moving before his mind and dick still stirring. It was something he had read in a book Mary-Beth lent him once, something about a woman escaping her high-class life to be romanced by some handsome young fisherman. It was awful and horribly predictable, but entertainment he took nonetheless.

His question was met with a snort. “_No,_ that just sounds like too much sand in the wrong places.”

Grimacing at the thought of that, Arthur tugged Charles’ hand until they were sitting at the water’s edge. Just out of reach so their asses wouldn’t soak, but close enough to tear their boots off (a joint effort, it turned out) and dip their worn feet in.

The water lapped at their toes in a rhythm that mimicked the waves of drunkenness Arthur felt wash over his body. Should he lay down? Charles wouldn’t mind if he used him as a pillow, he was sure.

“Back of a wagon,” Charles voice broke through the silence.

Arthur blinked in confusion and turned his head to the other man, questioning. “Pardon?”

His gaze was returned with a rare, sheepish expression. “Back of a wagon. That’s the most… _unorthodox_ spot I’ve fucked.”

Arthur gaped for a moment, dumbstruck, then doubled into laughter. His chuckles coming out as wheezes after a few beats and tears threatening to spill from his eyes. “A _wagon?_ Jesus, Charles, sounds like you got straw in some poor lady’s parts.”

A quick breath of laughter blew from Charles’ nose and he shook his head, looking back at the dark water. “A man, actually. I’m glad to say there was no straw.”

His laughs quickly quieted, and he found a new feeling overtaking him. Hot, grimy jealousy swirling in the pit of his stomach. The brine circled and stewed until the steam reached his head and spoiled his thoughts. Arthur wondered who the man was, what he looked like, where he was now, what he _meant_ to Charles. Of _course_ it was another man, it’s not like Arthur was the first cock to appear in Charles’ life. He hadn’t just waltzed up to him and took him by the hand into the life of an invert.

Arthur’s only past relationships had been with women, but he still had _fucked_ his way through the west before them, as he was growing into a man. He had owed John too many favors as the months (turned years) went by of him sneaking women and men alike in and out of camp. He thought he had been slick with it, too; until, Hosea clapped his shoulder one day, sat him down, and told him he needed to grow some responsibility before he brought something into this world he was unprepared for (or, Hosea didn’t say, jeopardize the gang with his inverted antics). The one-night stands died off. The years went by and the last person to touch Arthur had been Mary, who barely had the stomach to even look at his cock when they were intimate. That was, until Charles.

The thoughts and bubbling stew calmed with a rough hand softly squeezing his. He looked up into Charles’ warm smile.

“Only you, Arthur. Don’t worry about it.”

The cool water and burning thoughts had done something to help sober him up, but the air still felt tingly on his skin and his stomach remained warm with whiskey. He smiled back.

“And what about you? Have _you_ ever fucked on the beach?” Charles smirked at him now, the playfulness back in his voice.

He flushed and moved to tip his hat over his eyes, face growing hotter when he realized his hat wasn’t there. He swallowed. “_No. _I’m—I, uh,” Arthur broke their eye contact and swiped a hand down his face with a sigh. “Strangest place been in a tent, with you, Charles. Just somethin’ silly I read about in a book once.”

Despite having fucked or been fucked by probably the same number of people who lived in Valentine, he had always taken his partners to hotel rooms or whatever space he was given in the gang’s current camp. Arthur couldn’t even imagine getting intimate with someone in his cot now—even if he had covers for his wagon to offer some privacy. Charles must think that he truly must be an old prude if he considered a _tent_ in the Heartlands to be the strangest place he’s been fucked.

A soft kiss melted on his cheek and the remaining alcohol in his system leaned into the touch, without question.

“I’m honored to be on the top of that list,” Charles’ warm breath cradled Arthur’s cheek between words and more kisses.

He sighed and melted further into the touch, finding his hands moving of their own will until one was tangled in the younger man’s hair and the other was clutching his shirt. As the kisses moved further down, Charles’ mouth widened, and his tongue laved over tender spots on Arthur’s neck.

“I,” Arthur started, grip in his hair tightening as he held back a moan, “I wanna be the same for… for you, Charles.” Lord, who was he? A blushing virgin again?

The kisses stopped. Arthur whined at the lost touch. Suddenly two hands were on the back of his neck and a leg swung over his lap, straddling him.

The assault on his neck resumed—this time accompanied by an impossible amount of more enthusiasm. With a roll of his hips, Charles moaned hotly against his throat between kisses, “Oh, _Arthur._”

If he hadn’t been hard before, he swore the button of his blue jeans could burst open from the tent in his pants. Arthur pulled on the other man’s hair until they were eye-to-eye. A moment passed, a silent conversation between their dark stares, and lips locked. Teeth clacked against each other as they met, and hands wandered over bodies as if they would never get the chance to again.

Arthur’s hands found their way to Charles’ ass, which he cupped and kneaded at. The man above him moaned into his mouth and continued rolling his hips—grinding against Arthur’s clothed cock for _some_ form of friction. He met his movements with his own sloppy pace, the whiskey putting him out of sync.

Charles could care less, it seemed, as he roughly shoved Arthur’s chest to the sand. A string of saliva connected them until his back hit the ground.

With the moonlight beaming behind Charles—casting a halo of silver around his inky hair—he knew he was completely, royally, utterly fucked. There was nothing he wouldn’t do for this man. He had never felt so deeply with someone else before, had never trusted his whole body and being so blindly.

Fuck, had he said that out loud?

Charles cupped a tender hand on Arthur’s cheek and rubbed a thumb over the stubble. He looked down at him with soft eyes. “Arthur, I lo—”

Twigs snapping in the woods and leaves crunching brought Charles off of his knees and away from Arthur. He turned toward the noise, too, but the motion was too quick for his drunken head. He grunted and fell back against the sand and stared at the starry sky.

Load groaning sounded from the trees and slowly made its way closer to the two. “_Ughhh_—_fuck_ I gotta piss.”

Bill Williamson. Of course.

From the corner of his eye, he watched as Charles slowly backed away from the intruder (who sounded seconds away from blacking out).

“Shit, he’s getting pretty close, we should probably g—”

An even loader groan and the sound of gurgling and retching met his ears and Arthur cringed, feeling his own stomach churn.

Charles looked down at him with a sigh and leaned down to grab his hand and pull him up from the ground. They stumbled away from the godawful puking mess that was Bill and climbed into a rickety rowboat close by.

“Well,” he started to laugh, the humor of the situation getting the best of him, “where we goin’, Mr. Smith?”

His question was met with a barely contained laugh and soft shushes as the bigger man took the oars into his hands and brought them out onto Flat Iron Lake. “As far away we can get from that foul puking fool, my love.” Charles voice was meant to be no more than a whisper, but the alcohol on his breath was no help in achieving that level of volume.

_My love._ Arthur sunk further into the boat and felt a flush spread down to his chest. He and Charles had been fooling around and fucking for the past four months or so, but had never actually talked about their feelings or the nature of their relationship. Hell, if he was feeling real high and mighty he might’ve even thought Charles was about to tell him he loved him before they were so kindly interrupted.

The death of him, that’s what Charles Smith was.

He adjusted himself so he could watch as the other man rowed the boat. Watched his muscles slide with ease in the moonlight with each push and pull of the oars. If he had a camera on him, he would take a picture.

After a few moments Charles stopped his motions and leaned back against his end of the boat, sighing heavily. They must have been fairly far out—he couldn’t even hear the cicadas from where they were. The two silently watched each other from their respective ends. Gazes dark, lustful still. It baffled him how Charles continued to put up with an ugly fool like him.

Just barely in his field of view, he could see Charles try to adjust himself in his pants, the outline of his cock _very_ clear. Arthur swallowed.

“See something you like?” The younger man teased, smile crooked and toothy and dark all at once.

He didn’t even know how to reply to that—the past four months of… _whatever_ they were doing happily left no territory or activity unexplored. Of course he did, he thought. The answer was obvious, rhetorical.

Charles must have found _some_ form of an answer in Arthur’s stupidly wide eyed, slack jaw stare as he moved to brace himself on Arthur’s lap, once again. Slowly, agonizingly slowly, he lifted his shirt over his head in a single, fluid movement. Where it fell in the boat, neither cared.

“You’re so obvious, Arthur. You think I don’t see you staring at me changing. Don’t see you watch me chop wood in the morning.” Charles rolled his shoulders back, thick thighs tightening around Arthur’s legs.

Slowly, he worked at the buttons of Arthur’s shirt and leaned toward the blond until his lips were a hair’s width from his ear. “_You think I don’t know how bad you want my cock_,” he whispered, breath unbearably hot against his ear.

As soon as the words left his mouth, Arthur felt a sharp pinch and twist to his nipple. He groaned from the initial pain, which quickly turned into near pleasure that swirled low in his belly.

He swallowed and desperately tried to hold onto some part of the man on top of him—ending up digging his worn nails into his broad back. “_Fuck_, Charles, please—”

Another pinch, this time accompanied by a thumb masterfully rubbing and teasing his other nipple. He was merely an instrument for the younger man, he thought, one that was played with impossible finesse and unfathomably delicious skill. His nails dug deeper.

“Shirt. Off.”

Arthur nodded eagerly and tore away at the remaining buttons, tossing the plaid fabric behind them.

As soon as the barrier between them was removed, Charles roughly pushed Arthur’s shoulders down until they touched the floor of the boat. He moaned at the action, pathetically. He closed his eyes and tilted his head back, feeling the previous waves of drunkenness become overpowered by raw arousal.

He felt a tongue trace the curves of his pecs, the action causing an involuntary jerk of his hips. He could feel Charles grin against his skin as the tracing turned into open-mouthed kisses moving closer to his nipples. Once his lips reached there, Arthur whined expectantly, only to loudly moan at the sudden bite he felt followed by hard sucking.

He couldn’t just lay there while Charles’ ravished him like this, he managed to think. Arthur shakily moved a hand to palm at his lover’s erection through the fabric of his pants. Charles moaned, deeply, against him.

As the barrage on his chest continued, Arthur worked at the waistline of the younger man’s pants until he could slip a hand underneath it. His fingers inched down, slowly, coarse curls dragging against him.

With a growl, Charles slapped at the pec he had made a mess of—all red and swollen, glistening from saliva in the moonlight. Arthur yelped and quickly took hold of his length and gave a firm _tug_.

Charles threw his head back and let out a higher-pitched groan. Arthur could make a mess of him too, he thought, seeing his lips flushed and hair sticking to his forehead and neck from sweat.

Arthur moved to reposition him, so that _he_ could be on top and fuck Charles right in this boat.

The sudden movement startled the other man and sent him falling back, legs tangled with Arthur’s and movements jerky and hard.

The rowboat rocked violently from side to side with their harsh motions, only made worse as they frantically moved to overcompensate for the boat’s tilting.

With an unmanly yell from one of the two, the boat capsized and threw them into the cold water.

Arthur had had several near-death experiences in his life. When he was seventeen, he had fucked an (unknown to him) engaged woman, which had resulted in an entire family clan chasing him with pitchforks across the county until they caught up with him and drug him through the prairie by a lasso for a whole night. Cut up his chin all awful, too.

When he was twenty-two, he became an older brother to a twelve-year-old John Marston. Hosea and Dutch’s first order as his new role was to teach the boy proper horsemanship. The only spare horse they were able to give the boy had been a nasty old nag, gangly and never truly broken in her long life. It had only taken ten minutes on the trail for the mare to take advantage of her inexperienced rider and inattentive chaperone, taking off toward the edge of the gorge they were riding by. Arthur’s only thoughts were to rescue the young boy, which was done by lassoing the nasty mare’s neck and falling down the edge of the gorge once she came to a halt. He woke up a day later with a dizzy head, broken nose, and two angry fathers.

Those two incidents had been the dumbest, life-threatening mistakes he had made in his life.

Or, had been, as he now clawed at the sand approaching his arms and legs.

He broke the surface of the water and sucked for air loudly, heaving himself further onto whatever shore he had landed on. Once he was mostly out of the water, he snapped his neck back to the lake to find _some_ sign of Charles.

Arthur knew he could take care of himself, he _knew_, but he was still fearful. He coughed up more water and vomited into the sand.

A loud splash broke him out of the coughing fit that followed his puking. He looked up at the source of the noise, relief washing over him at the sight of Charles walking out of the water further up shore.

Ungracefully, Arthur scrambled up to his feet and wobbily jogged to the other man and pulled him into a lung-crushing hug that was returned with equal force.

“Jesus, what even—I, God, _what_,” he started, mind racing faster than his mouth could keep up.

Two strong, wet hands cupped his cheeks and drew him into a painfully hard, long kiss. “We’re both fools, that’s what.”

Looking into each other’s eyes with wild stares and holding each other’s faces, they broke into a hysterical laughter—nerves shot from the ridiculous circumstances of their having nearly died.

The boat was at the bottom of Flat Iron Lake, along with their shirts and pride. They stood on some small island _barely_ within eyesight of Clemens Point, and they were alive and safe. How the hell they would get back was a problem to solve later.


End file.
